


Lucifer Rising

by sock_bealady



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Real Events, Miranda is the hero we deserve, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: It's 2017 and the editor-in-chief of a major fashion magazine has decided that her publication is going in an entirely new direction.  God help anyone who tries to stop her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not at all my usual type of work, but I just couldn't resist.

The phone ringing before 7:30 at Runway Magazine was never a good sign. It was Serena, the second assistant just three weeks on the job, who had the misfortune of taking the call from the hapless driver. During the seventeen seconds she spent on the phone, her legs began tremoring to the point that her stilettos beat out a staccato on the elegantly tiled floor. As soon as she hung up the line, she bellowed in the voice of a doctor calling a code, "The breakfast meeting was _cancelled_!"

Patricia, the first assistant with nearly three years on the battlefield behind her, knew exactly what to do. Within moments, Emily was rushing in, a whirl of gauzy skirts and metallic accoutrements, to lay out the newest sketches and concepts on Miranda's desk, all the while wondering how Nigel had managed this job all those years. Of course, he'd never had to manage it in three inch heels. God, she would kill to bring back ballet flats.

All throughout the spotless offices, spotless people were sweeping away all signs of clutter or disorder or food, slipping aching feet into Jimmy Choos, trading comfy sweaters for stylish blazers.

"It can't be any worse than yesterday, can it?" Serena stage-whispered to Patricia.

"Word is, she's in a bad mood," Patricia replied.

Emily hurried by, rolling her eyes at the both of them. "She's been in a bad mood since November," she announced, "Perhaps you ought to get over it and do your jobs."

Miranda swept through the door less than a minute later, throwing her coat and bag at Serena so hard they glanced off the desk and ricocheted into her lap. "The April concepts are insufferably dull," she announced to no one in particular. Emily and Patricia, trailing along in her wake, whipped out matching notebooks and began taking notes. "I'll need a complete redesign by the end of the day. And, what do you suppose what do you suppose they were thinking with that skirt selection for next month? I ask for cream, they give me camel. As if anyone has worn _camel_ since 2005. Confirm my lunch with Andrea. We'll have to find a new dog walker--Javier has the flu--and Caroline and Cassidy will need plane tickets to Providence for the start of the spring semester. Oh, and do you have that editor? Get me that editor on the line _now._ Which editor? Really, Patricia? Selena, get the editor of the memorial piece on the line."

Serena dutifully punched in the number and had the unfortunate task of preparing the poor editor for his first heart attack. As soon as she was sure the call had connected, she hung up, but there was no blocking out Miranda Priestly's sharp tone from within the office.

"I am not in the habit of repeating myself! I told you we needed better visuals for the memorial, and _this_ is what you come back with? . . . I am _aware_ that they are dead, it does not change the aesthetic standards I hold for this magazine . . . Really? Really? So, how is it that with a combined one hundred and twenty years in the public eye, you cannot find a single picture of the two of them where neither looks dumpy, frumpy, or old? Could you answer me that? No? I didn't think so. I'll give you one more shot. Send me an _appropriate_ selection of images for your piece, I'll review them over my lunch, and if you somehow haven't managed to muck it up again then _perhaps_ we can continue to find a place for you here."

The phone slammed down hard enough that everyone jumped. "Selena!"

"Yes, Miranda?"

"Call that restaurant and cancel. We're moving lunch to that bistro across the street, you know the one. And then call Andrea's office and inform her of the change."

"Right! On it." Serena twisted her hands together, feeling adrenaline burn the last of her morning kale smoothie from her body. She stared at Patricia, silently begging. "Who's Andrea?"

Patricia sighed, frustrated. "Andy Sachs? She's only the only person on the planet who actually considers Miranda a friend! The journalist from the New York Mirror? She used to work here, and ever since she left, she's been Miranda's man on the street. Keeps her informed about what the average person is saying in coffee shops, what the public perception is, that kind of thing. They meet for lunch once a month, and Miranda _never_ takes work with her!"

Serena ducked her head, reflecting that some poor editor was likely having the worst day of his life.

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Andy arrived ten minutes early for her lunch with Miranda. It was always best to be early for these luncheons--that way she could get a good start on a martini and be appropriately mellow before Herself arrived. Even after ten years of mostly-amicable acquaintance, holding a conversation with Miranda Priestly could feel a bit like trying to dance with a tornado. Or, lately, a Sharknado.

As always, the clicking of her heels and the swishing of fabrics announced her arrival. "An- _dre_ -a!"

Andy stood and pasted a smile on her face. "It's good to see you, Miranda." She endured the usual single-cheek kiss that Miranda reserved for her New York acquaintances. "And bringing work!" Her eyebrows raised at the sight of the leather-bound folder. "So, whose head are they cleaning up off the floor today?"

Miranda rolled both steel-rimmed eyes as she sat across from her. "Just the usual incompetence. Nothing I'd want to _bore_ you with. So _tell_ me about the New Yorker piece! That's _quite_ a bit of exposure, isn't it?"

"It doesn't hurt, but I'm still a few good pieces away from getting another national story. But, tell me about the January issue! I _loved_ that cover spread. Who knew that suits could be so sexy?"

They exchanged pleasantries--news about work and the doings of Andy's parents and the _frightful disaster_ that Vera Wang came out with last month--over a glass and a half of Chardonnay each until the food arrived.

"I swear, Andrea," Miranda said as she speared a cherry tomato, "You ordered that just to annoy me."

Andy took a big bite of the house burger and chewed noisily. "Is it working?" she asked breezily once her mouth was empty.

Miranda gave her that tight pursing of the lips that she used instead of a smile. "And that scarf. You are trying to send me to an early grave by way of terrible accessory choices."

"Well that's interesting," Andy said, "Since I got this as a sample while I was working at Runway."

"Which, in case you've lost count, was over ten years ago! Corsets and hoop skirts were once fashionable too."

Andy smiled. Long practice had taught her to enjoy Miranda's barbs rather than taking offense. "How are the twins?" she asked, licking barbeque sauce from the corner of her mouth, "They're at . . . what, Princeton now?"

"Brown." Miranda waved a hand, looking very put-upon. "They both want to be Emma Watson when they grow up. Now, they've got me running whole articles on Beauty and the Beast and that ridiculous yellow ball gown."

"Sounds like they've got it all figured out," Andy said, "They gonna save the world when they graduate like I was going to?"

"One can only hope." Andy stopped smiling at the solemnity in Miranda's tone. She stayed silent while the older woman opened her binder and flipped through a few pages.

"And how are things with Tomas?" she asked at last.

"Not."

"Oh? I'm sorry." Andrea reflected that at least she hadn't married this one. "Wish I had some sage advice for you, but I'm the one that thought Nate would make a good life partner."

"Could have been worse. You got some good exposure while you were with the _Globe._ "

"Yeah, well. Boston wasn't for me, you know?"

"I know. New York is your home." Miranda closed the folder with a snap and gave Andy a piercing almost-glare. "That's why you're going to come and work for me."

Andy sat back in her chair, physically shaken. "Um . . . no? I mean, I'm flattered and all, but . . . no? You do remember the circumstances of me quitting, right? Not to mention the fact that I'm about three articles away from actually being considered an almost-established journalist? Or the fact that my current job actually pays enough to cover my rent?"

"Oh, please. I can easily double whatever that local rag is paying you for articles on sewer drains."

"Really? You'd pay me a hundred thousand dollars a year to fetch your coffee?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Andrea, you were a _terrible_ assistant. Technically competent, but your heart was never in it. No, I need you for something else. The magazine is going in a new direction." She took a long swig of wine. "Don't get me wrong, we'll still be the leader in all things fashion, but the publishers have found some fat to trim so that we can free up ten extra pages a month. That's going to _written content._ Essays, editorials, character pieces, whatever they're _not_ talking about on the evening news, that's what we'll cover and we'll do it better and faster than anyone else in the business."

Andy glanced from side to side and then leaned forward, lowering her voice as if they were exchanging classified information. "Miranda . . . is Runway going _political_? There was talk after that January spread . . . god, not a skirt in that entire suit collection, and when has _that_ ever happened . . . but nobody took it as anything more than fake edginess to stir up controversy."

Miranda's lips went tight. "There was nothing _fake_ about the hundreds of phone calls it took to scare up a selection of suitable trousers. But, that's not even the opening salvo. We're pulling in reporters and editors to work on the meat and potatoes issues. Discrimination, income inequality, educational access, and, since I don't need to tell you the proportion of our readership that is female, feminism. That's where my frumpy friend in her I'm-not-trying-too-hard antique scarf comes in."

Andy gripped her wine glass tight. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying a steady job that will get you out of whatever rat-trap studio you're living in. Monthly articles and editorial columns on all manner of women's issues. You make it edgy and readable, I'll find the team of photographers and PhotoShop experts to make the accompanying images unforgettable. You can still do your freelance work, of course, but you'd answer first to Runway and to me."

_And that worked out so well for me last time,_ Andy reflected darkly. She swallowed. "Miranda . . . don't get me wrong, I'm flattered. And honored. But . . . I think you know that puff pieces for a fashion magazine is not the kind of work I see myself doing."

"Oh, and what do you see yourself doing? Wasting your time on print-only publications that reach an audience of about a dozen? Slaving away on a hundred articles for the _Times_ in the hopes that one might make it through? Our readership is _national._ You could have your words read by anyone with access to a grocery store in the continental United States. And you're going to turn that down out of some principled stance against handbag spreads?"

Andy folder her hands and summoned all her wits. "Miranda . . . you know how much I respect you and what you've accomplished. But, what you're talking about isn't for me."

"So, you don't want to fight?"

Andy's head came up. "Fight?"

"Don't play dumb, you know exactly what I mean. You were in his press corp, weren't you?"

She swallowed hard. "Only for a few weeks leading up to the conventions. I was just filling in for a friend."

"The one who had the nervous breakdown, you mean?"

"He's doing much better, thanks. I'll pass along your concern."

"Andrea, you're better than this! You had to go to those rallies, stand in that little cordoned off press area like a beast in a cage, listen to _him_ blather on, and watch his supporters circle like hyenas and you mean to tell me you don't want even a little bit of revenge?"

Andy's stomach lurched. "Of _course_ I do!" She forced herself to lower her voice. "You think I don't feel sick every day that it's come to this? I'm a journalist, Miranda, and half the country thinks that makes me the spawn of Satan! This past year . . . it's been the first time in a decade that I worked longer hours than I did during that year I was holding your bag, and to see it all come to _nothing_? That makes me sick." She leaned back. "But, writing for Runway . . . that's not for me. It would never get me taken seriously."

Miranda gave her a thin smile--the sort that sent chills down the spines of lesser women. "My dear Andrea . . . I thought I'd broken you of the habit of thinking everything is about you." She flicked two fingers and a waiter scurried over to refill her glass. Thus fortified, she locked her Medusa gaze on Andy. "This is a plan that's been in the works for months. I wanted to move on it much sooner, but certain people on the board thought it posed too much of a risk. It is 2017, however, and I refuse to allow _my_ magazine to be left behind by the likes of Cosmopolitan and Teen Vogue, god help us. This goes forward with or without you, but I want you with us."

Andy stared. "You're serious."

"As. A. Heart attack. I have a readership of twenty million and I am _not_ going to let the world fall into some tacky hellhole lined with gilt paint and oversized ties. So, are you in or are you out?"

"I would have to think about it."

Miranda gave a soft sigh, the way she often did when called out for her posturing. She slid the binder towards Andy. "Take a look."

Andy opened the cover and swallowed hard. Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds smiled back at her, arm in arm at some red carpet event, forever glamorous.

"Two of the most accomplished women of their respective ages," Miranda was saying, "Entertainers, artists . . . now dead within days of each other and the only thing I can do about it is make them look beautiful for a retrospective spread." She laid a carefully manicured hand gently over their faces. "This is what I do, Andrea. I find the important things and make them look beautiful because until they do, no one will ever see their importance. That is how I fight. So, are you with me, or is there somewhere more important you need to be?"

There was really only one answer after that.

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It was 2 AM, only silence and snores could be heard from the girls' room, and Miranda Priestly could not sleep. She leafed through the Book one more time, though there was nothing to add to her notes. The memorial piece had come out beautifully, accented by stunning photos of each woman in her youth and aging into full dignity. The photo spread of bright neon dresses against the gray of a subway platform only needed a bit more PhotoShop tweaking and the study of the hijabi model was a lovely, artful display of sheer, trailing fabrics. There was nothing to add here. She'd done her best for one more day.

Yesterday's to-do list still rested on her bedside table. She crumpled it into a ball and stood to drop it into the trash can.

The nauseating sight of orange spray-tan and a glaring red tie stopped her. It had been Caroline's idea to tape _his_ photo onto the bottom of all the house trash cans, so they could all have the joy of throwing trash at him several times a day. Miranda hadn't had the heart to have them removed. She'd have to see to that with the maid once the girls went back to school.

For now, her nails dug deep into the crumpled paper and into her own flesh. Her lips tightened to the sort of white line that everyone in her field knew to fear. For the thousandth time, she flashed back to that fall--watching the second debate at home with both girls back from college. Ninety minutes of filthy _locker room talk._ And that one minute after it was all over when Cassidy suddenly broke down crying. When she started spilling out confessions about a fake ID and a nightclub in Providence and a stranger's unwanted hand up her skirt.

"You will pay, you fucking bastard," Miranda whispered, "I will make sure of that."

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated. If you're conservative, I'm Not Sorry.


End file.
